


ALIVE

by h0neybeebear



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Beating, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e05 Contorno, Gen, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:33:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29916963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/h0neybeebear/pseuds/h0neybeebear
Summary: When Jack came for him, the circle was complete. The event he’d set in motion finally travelled back to him, like the steady motion of the Earth around the Sun, a predictable constant.[A deep dive into Hannibal's thoughts and feelings when Jack showed up to beat his ass in Italy in s3ep5 Contorno]
Relationships: Jack Crawford & Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	ALIVE

**Author's Note:**

> uh this is basically just self-indulgence. because of some tumblr discussions i was thinking a lot about the contorno fight scence (one of my top ten scenes of the entire show) and needed to get my feelings out. S/O to @ruakhs for starting the whole discussion over on tumblr and assisting in this brain rot

When Jack came for him, the circle was complete. The event he’d set in motion finally travelled back to him, like the steady motion of the Earth around the Sun, a predictable constant. 

When Hannibal saw him standing below, the fading twilight slanting dark across his rich complexion and obsidian gaze, he felt the first slice of contentment in his chest that he’d experienced since arriving in Italy. Bella had gone from this life and here Jack was to finish him, freed of the tethers of the morality of the FBI and the pride of his marriage. His heart rate had scarcely risen as he’d watched Pazzi plunge towards the paved courtyard below, but Jack’s presence put a pressure on his pulse. 

He wiped Pazzi’s blood from his blade, pocketed the knife, and allowed Jack to look at him. There was intention in the other man’s eyes, a concentrated hatred that had brimmed to the surface. He’d unleashed only a fraction of it the last time Hannibal had seen him. It had been wild and unevolved then, his anger lurching out of him with scarcely a thought for logistics or reality. What Hannibal saw in his eyes now was something more calculating. He’d come to the Palazzo Capponi at night, waited until the streets were barren, until Hannibal was alone. He’d mulled this idea for some time, perhaps fantasizing about what he might do when he finally caught up to the Chesapeake Ripper, a man who was his friend rather than the foe he’d imagined. 

Hannibal moved when Jack moved. Jack strode towards the entrance of the Palazzo, his steps purposeful, set on destruction. Hannibal turned from the window, snatching his coat and briefcase.

The interior room was silent when he entered, golden light cast over the instruments of torture. Shadows filled the room, containing positions of attack. Jack’s presence stroked the back of his neck, his senses prickling sharply with premonition. His steps slowed, and he flicked his gaze between display cases and the glint of ancient metal. Somewhere among them, Jack’s gaze was latched onto him, digging beneath his flesh with the promise of agony. Hannibal could feel his sluggish pain receptors opening in response, like a morning glory to the light. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal said into the dark, “Did you get my note?”

He reached into his pocket slowly and withdrew the knife. The click of it sliding open grated loud against the dark. 

“I’m truly sorry about Bella,” he said softly as he advanced quietly down the aisle. “For her night and day must have been very much the same in the end.”

His gaze tracked slowly around, flickering behind him as he sought for Jack’s location. 

“When she could no longer stir or speak, did you speak for her?” Hannibal asked, goading Jack towards the same circle of light he was illuminated in. “I imagine you were capable of giving Bella any medication she may have needed in the night... Did you practice injections on an orange, Jack?” 

His smile was cut off at the rasp and turn of the record player. The first triumphant strains of Rossini’s _ La Gazza Ladra Overture  _ fizzed to life from static with the rumble of the drums. He turned towards the direction of the record player, the thump of his heartbeat in his neck in direct concert with the tune. 

“What medication did you give her in the end?” he asked, his body tensed in exquisite tension. “Was it too much? Or just enough?”

The scuffle of footsteps behind him was dulled by the notes of the overture, appearing too late in his consciousness before Jack’s hands were on him. One arm looped underneath his shoulder, wrenching tight. The familiar scent of Jack’s cologne and the notes of summer Italian air he’d carried in with him burst across Hannibal’s senses. The solid press of his chest against Hannibal’s back lasted for a mere second before he thrust him into the glass of the large exhibit behind them that was filled with medieval blades and axes. 

Hannibal’s body spun, hitting the case hard under the explosive strength of Jack’s hands. Pain spread like angel’s wings across his rib cage, then a thousand sharp knives of penetration as he landed atop the shattered array of glistening glass. He felt the knife slip from his hand along with the less important objects of his jacket and briefcase. The escape of the knife from his hand did not concern him as he might’ve imagined. He felt naked beneath the threat of Jack’s fists, his jaw inviting the blow. The tender, vulnerable expanse of his stomach awaited the punishing lash.

The first blow came with far more force than he’d even dreamt of. He’d been content to let Jack die in his cellar all those months ago when he’d been blinded by greater forces. Now, he realized that it would’ve been a deep shame to let all of the work he’d done on Jack go to waste. This was far better. Jack was trembling and coiled tight with rage, set off by the final thrust of Bella’s hand from the afterlife. 

When Hannibal struggled upright, he could see Jack for the first time in his final violent adaption of himself. The broad width of his shoulders was rippling with unhindered savergy, his expression written with the rage and satisfaction of a man who had little to lose and little mercy to spare. 

Hannibal grabbed the frame of the exhibit and began to drag himself upright. He’d scarcely gotten his feet under himself when Jack planted his own foot in his chest. The sole of his foot, unmasked and unclothed, slammed into his sternum. Air expelled sharply from Hannibal’s lungs, a bright burst of pain that could only come from suffocation rushing in to fill the spaces where once oxygen had resided.

He crashed through the other side of the exhibit with another brilliant splatter of glass. He landed on his back, his head smacking the hardwood floor. For a moment, he could barely draw a breath, only a choking inhale that barely made its way to his brain as he blinked against the resounding spasms of pain. 

Above him, Jack pushed aside the instruments of torture as he stepped through the naked frame of the exhibit. He passed by the tools that could’ve come to effective use, his lips pulled back from his teeth in what might’ve been either a grimace or a smile. 

Hannibal watched him come for half a moment before he dragged himself onto his side, attempting to put his hands onto the floor and push himself up. His already battered body barely answered his commands, struggling weakly across the floor. Jack’s shadow fell across him in menacing promise, and he turned his head, staring up at him over his shoulder. Jack’s mouth pulled into a sneer of disgust, his fist drawing back for a purposeful display of fermented animosity.

He was going to take his time. He would be as a lover -- thorough, patient, and focused, dedicated to every second of Hannibal’s experience beneath the touch of his hand. Hannibal would feel the full extent of his desire. There would be no questioning of this fact. The life of fancy and pleasure that he’d been following upon his whims was going to be rent from him. It was a bland existence that Hannibal wished farewell to as Jack’s knuckles came towards him. 

The punch connected, snapping Hannibal’s head back towards the floor with a spray of blood. He felt his lip split beneath the strike, felt the pain radiate with naseauting power across his entire face. A thick glob of blood hit the floor beneath him, and he heard his breath wheeze into his lungs. 

His hazy gaze tracked across the floor to the glint of metal. The knife that had slipped from his fingers lay tauntingly across from him, separated from his grasp by only a few feet. He grunted against the pain and dragged himself towards it. 

Sudden pain scorched through his calf muscle, then a rending pull as Jack reeled him in by the three-pronged meathook he’d found amongst the fallen instruments. Hannibal lashed out with his opposite leg, and Jack feinted back, clearing the flailing arch of Hannibal’s heel. He seemed amused by Hannibal’s pathetic attempt to fight back. His foot came down again, crashing into Hannibal’s cheekbone and sending his skull back into the waiting expanse of the hardwood. A second blow came, delivered by Jack’s fist, to the sensitive area of his ribs and kidneys. He contorted beneath the blow just before another was dealt upon his pleading, throbbing flesh. His writhing earned him a third jab to his jaw, forcing him from the fetal position and into a splayed out arrangement on his back. 

The ceiling of the Palazzo swirled above him in dizzying shades of gold and red. He could barely draw breath around the absolute agony and the taut whistling of his lungs. Blood was thick in his mouth, tantalizing his palate with copper and suffering. The reminder of Jack’s fist was pressed against his lips in a fatal kiss.

Jack came into his vision, straddling his waist. He grabbed Hannibal by the front of his shirt, dragging him close. Their foreheads were almost touching as Jack hauled him upright. Hannibal clutched at his wrists as Jack’s breath blasted across Hannibal’s mouth from between gritted teeth, touching blood and saliva in hot rushes. Jack’s eyes were coal black in the dark, flecked through with shots of amber rage and pulsing gratification. At this proximity, Hannibal could smell the savory, spicy scent of his arousal and vindication.

He tossed Hannibal across the room, flinging him to the ground in a rough roll several yards from him. Hannibal buttoned back a cry as the meathook jarred in the delicate muscle of his leg. He dragged himself onto his hands and knees and grabbed the rough metal. Forcing the sharp implement from his flesh, he could not hinder the growl of pain that exploded from his lips. He struggled to his feet as Jack watched him, content to allow him to try to stand for the punishment if he could take it. 

Pushing his sleeves up his arms, Jack strode towards him once more. The next punch made his weakened body twirl. The arms of the breaking wheel rushed towards him, greeting the bridge of his nose with a sickening crack. The flood of pain was sharp and overwhelming, immediately sending blood gushing into the waiting entrances of his nostrils. He sagged into the breaking wheel, but Jack swept his feet out from under him in one swift motion. He fell to his ass, and one arm tumbled in between the spokes of the wheel, a fact that he realized far too late. Jack spun the wheel, and Hannibal’s back arched, his entire body thrusting upwards as the turn of the wheel threatened to tear his arm from his shoulder and shatter pearly bone. 

His lids fluttered open sluggishly as Jack bent over him, eyes flashing bright and resplendent with pleasure. 

His mouth was full with blood and it bubbled up against his lips as he chuckled raspily, “I brought Bella back from the dead, and you returned her to it.”

It would earn him another turn of the wheel or another strike of Jack’s fist. It would not matter, though Hannibal thought he preferred the intimacy of Jack’s fist. There, he could feel the brunt of the anger contained in Jack’s body, feel the flush of flesh and the grind of bone. 

“Is that where you’re taking me, Jack?” Hannibal panted as Jack bent over him, hardly seeming fazed by Hannibal’s taunts. 

His fist drew back again, coming down in an even harsher, more devastating blow than before. Hannibal’s head flew back, unconsciousness teasing at the corners of his vision. In the blackening of his mind, he saw his Baltimore kitchen, awash in blood. 

Jack circled the breaking wheel, taking in the sight of him bloodied and bruised, a sight he no doubt enjoyed with every fiber and cell of his being. He was far from done. 

He came back around to Hannibal and took him by the front of his shirt once more. The cheery tone of  _ La Gazza Ladra  _ climbed the scales with enchanting ecstasy around him. He clutched at Jack’s hands bunched around his shirt as Jack steadied him. It wasn’t mercy. It was simply Jack lining him up for another round of retribution. 

Jack’s forehead snapped into him in a dizzying headbutt, rattling his senses before Jack threw him into another glass exhibit. He grabbed at the shelf, but couldn’t stop himself from falling. He came to rest among the sparkling bits of glass that lay across the ground like a shimmering winter frost. 

Blackness pulled over his head, a buzz ringing loudly in his ears as consciousness played with the ends of his fingertips once more. The same haunting sight of the kitchen growled to life behind his eyes. 

_ “You were supposed to leave…” _

_The glimmering fear shot through with hints of hopeful anticipation in the eyes of the man he would soon destroy._ _  
_ _“We couldn’t leave without you…”_

_ The trembling cry in his ear as he wrenched the blade deep into flesh. The feel of him holding on, holding on to Hannibal, holding onto his guts… And he, holding onto the last thing he could remember truly living for…  _

Jack grabbed him suddenly, jarring him from the painful memory. He didn’t fight as Jack slammed him into the wall. His palm encased Hannibal’s throat in a warm, inviting embrace, his fingers clenching tight around his neck. A blow landed on one side of his face and then the other, bursting gushes of blood from the prison of his flesh. 

Jack let him down from the wall, his hands cradling the back of his head, steady and firm. He brought Hannibal’s face down into his knee, bending him to his will and the unrelenting punishment. 

Hannibal slumped to the floor, his broken body pulsing and crying out for relief. Emotion he hadn’t called for clumped at the back of his throat, stinging tears burning his retinas. He dragged himself weakly away from Jack, towards the exterior room. Pazzi’s body hung below, rotting and wasting away. He’d suffered far less under Hannibal’s hands than Hannibal had under Jack’s hands. Perhaps, unlike Hannibal, the man had had nothing to pay for besides his own stupidity.

Hannibal dragged himself to the window, his body an unwilling captor of his mind. Hauling himself onto the edge of the window, he pressed his forehead to the stone frame. Blood was pooling, falling in thick strings from his nose and mouth. Every part of his body felt flayed and shattered.

At last, he felt something other than the same dull ache, the same unremitting sensation of dissatisfaction. It did not matter how many truffles he ate or how many glasses of fine wine he drank, nor how many brutish, crude men from the Italian art community that he killed. The ache stayed with him, cruel and insatiable. Now, Jack had come to end it for both of them. 

He briefly imagined how these events might have played out if he’d simply let Bella slip into a sedated sleep. Would Jack be here now, ready to become a killer twice over? 

Jack’s frame filled the doorway. In his fist, he clenched the meathook, still dripping with Hannibal’s freshly drawn blood. 

“How will you feel when I’m gone?” Hannibal rasped as Jack advanced towards him.

Jack’s lips drew in a smile, his eyes glistening with a sheen of final gratification. 

“Alive,” he whispered.

There was no lie in his voice. There was not a hint of regret in his expression, not for Bella’s death and not for Hannibal’s impending one. He’d let Bella go because he loved her, because he could live as long as he knew that she was happy and free. 

_ “You can make it all go away. Lay your head back and wade into the quiet of the stream.”  _

His own voice echoed in his head, below it the echo of Will’s voice. Neither of them were free and neither of them were happy.

The meathook arched through the air, flinging blood from metal before it connected beneath his jaw, tearing skin and launching him back. He flipped backwards out of the window, his body racing towards the courtyard below. For half of a moment, he let the concept of death wash over him, his final moments written in blood outside of the Palazzo Capponi, beneath a fake name and a fake life. 

He’d once told Bella that death was a cure, a cure he’d been willing to accept when Jack was pummelling him over the breaking wheel. As the concrete rushed towards him, he remembered vividly that it was only a cure if his life was not wasted before death came to claim him. 

_ “I gave you a rare gift, but you didn’t want it.” _

_ “Didn’t I?” _

_  
_ Will’s shattered voice filled his ears, and he grappled for purchase. Pazzi’s bloody, ravaged body met his palms, and he clung almost desperately to the fabric of the inspector’s shirt and pants, and it began to rip until the momentum of Hannibal’s body came to a halt. He hung there, muscles trembling with exertion and Pazzi’s remaining guts tumbling against his chest. 

He gazed up Pazzi’s body to find Jack in the window, his hands in fists, one still clutching the meathook.

Slowly letting himself slip down, he held onto Pazzi’s ankles until he was as close to the ground as he could be before he dropped. Pain flared up his wounded leg, but he forced himself up. Jack would not follow him into the streets. 

He glared back up at Jack from the ground below, brutally beaten but alive, far more alive than Florence had managed to revive him. 

_ Thank you, Jack,  _ he thought briefly before he turned and limped towards the encroaching darkness of Italy. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on [Tumblr!](http://m-i-z-u-m-o-n-o.tumblr.com/)


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